step right up to this broken machine
she'll take anyone
look at this queen
she's shiny and new with smiles so bright
every step she takes is light
her colours are more than a rainbow can boast
she has more than any
she has the most
they drift in the wind and fall from her fingers
her joy is infectious
she's contentment's dead ringer

this machine never stops
that's why its so popular
people will travel far
there is no other
none so dedicated to her job as this
she's a volunteer so surely she loves it
but a crisis strikes every once in a while
the machine won't admit it, she's in denial
but her colour store is personally supplied
if she told you it's abundant, surely she lied

this machine has colours she enjoys sparing
but to spend her whole life as this machine is daring
machines must be turned off
must be unplugged
this machine never does because help is her drug
she goes and she goes until she overheats
her colours start melting
they run through the streets
these runaway colours are scooped up and scrounged
meanwhile the machine is left on the ground
she rusts while it rains, there on the ground

no regard for the girl whose rainbow
seems to be gone
look how she lays so
curled up and crying but not from her loss
crying because her aid is the cost
with no regard for herself she whispers
"if I take a break, look at who suffers"
but the rainbow too must be regrown
it can only take time and care and sweet tones
encouraging words to let her know
she's not alone, she will never be thrown
from this world with contempt
because love exists
but love may not always come to you free
sometimes there is just one fee
it isn't much... just to ask

I have read the poem you wrote for me late at night hundreds of times.
I read it when my mind is constantly doubting itself.
I read it when my eye sockets are continuously flowing waterfalls and I've been drained of my confidence.
I read it when I need it.

You see those little poetic words created by a beautiful mind are my reminders that I'm strong.
That this life is not as bad as it seems.
That I have what it takes.

When looking into your eyes I see a healer.
Somebody who fixes wounds with words.
A kid at heart who fixes minds with short phrases because he is to scared to encounter his own.
A healer who needs healing.

I'd like to thank you.
For creating a boost of confidence for me.
A beautiful piece of art that'll live in my head for years to come.
Something I can go back to without worrying it'll be gone when I get there.

I hope you find someone who can give you what you gave me.
Because I believe you need it too.
A boost of confidence that'll never fade.

Hail the  hobo King sitting  on his throne of
A stripped ford, engine no longer their
Dismantled  of all that was worth a dime.

His subjects bring offerings of dinner trash
Food, fresh from the dumpster. Given to
Those of ill health and malnourished need.

He sits in clothes matted with his trails of
The moments his feet have hit the pavement.
Of life not as others had the chance to live.

He wandered the land every concrete jungle
Knew him as the hobo King, no crown gestured
His head, only the word, the word of mouth.

Settling disputes of those in homes of cardboard
Of wood and used plastic sheeting sheltering from
Those who would do harm and the relentless cold.

He wonders the streets, knows the secrets of each
City of the unseen spaces where those whom roam
Now lay. The vulnerable have a guardian a keeper.

Ignorance of those who do not see that which in
Doorways sleep, of huddled masses under bridges
Buildings to keep dry and an uneasy sleep.

He is the hobo king a crown of matted hair he
Wears, always does he have time for those
Less fortunate because he is one with the street.

What do I know about what has been taken from me?
It is dangerous any more at this age to sleep for very long,
as I may awake not even recognizing myself.

Some part of me leaves without my permission,
departs into its own journey each night--
perhaps into the stars.
What is left open in the empty space
where I have been ribbed and robbed?
It appears as a widening of flesh
that seems to resist closing,
a sacred wound from on high places,
carved with a determined and prosperous hand.

What returns to me?
How it arrives
is the same amount of mystery that was taken.

I see someone beside me,
outside of me,
who requests that we be added to each other--
a blend that only much deep sleep can provide.

This has come to me for help;
to help with what I once thought I needed
and for what I knew had been taken from me.
Now it is apart from me and stands beside me,
I awake with the pain of a blessed departure
that has stirred inside of me.

Sitting in a crowded room,
everybody has something to say,
i try to tell a story but
nobody would listen.

At that moment when i try to  raise my voice,
i just realise that am blocked out.
I sit alone in a crowed room and i wonder what my purpose is.

Much of a helper thats all i am,
much of a planner thats what i am,
so much of a listener and a talker when something needs to be solved,
but less than that am blocked out,
less than that am invisible.
Thats what i am
just less than that

I am tired.
Tired of feeling alone.
  Tired of feeling unneeded.
   Tired of feeling ignored.
    You only talk to me
      When you need help.
        When you need advice.
           I'll ask
            'Hey how are you doing?'
-Silence
              'Hey what are you doing today?'
-Silence
              
                   I am Sick
                     Sick of feeling useless.
                       Sick of feeling stepped on.
                         Sick of being spoken to
                           only when those around me need help,
                               For they know I will never turn down a 'friend.'
                                    A 'Loved One,'
                                        A 'Confidant.'

                          To whom do helpers turn in time of need?
                                             In times of sorrow?
                                              In times of panic?
                                     What holds the mighty rock?
                                  The rock that breaks the waves?
                                     The rock whose sole purpose
                           Seems to be protection against the sea?
                                            Who helps the rock?
                              When the ground begins to tremble
                                       And open its mighty maw?
                                            To whom do I turn?
                                            On whom do I lean?
              When I am Sick?                                     When I am Tired?
        
                                                                ­                              Because I am Sick,
                                                           ­            And I am Tired
                                          And I am closed.